Post natal ante natal

This evening we went to our last ante-natal class, three weeks to the day since my wife’s waters broke. After all, we’d paid up front so there was no sense wasting money, even if Felicity kept interrupting to ask for more food.

It was nice to see all the couples again, each looking significantly more pregnant than three weeks ago, when we were still concentrating on breathing techniques and visualizing positive energies. Now, seasoned veterans of parenthood, we could tell everyone exactly what it was like. After all, we know our baby is very special, but like all parents, we also know that our experience is exactly normal and representative of the experience that all parents will have.

Felicity has little sense of irony right now, so wouldn’t find that kind of thing funny. However, she is clearly blessed with precognition and realized I’d be typing that paragraph a few hours later, so about eight thirty she made her displeasure known. That, or she was offended about us discussing her without actually including her in the conversation.

Fortunately, her needs are still few, and easily solved by a process of elimination. If she doesn’t need feeding, changing or burping, she probably wants either attention or a gentle rocking motion, so as soon as she began her apparently inconsolable wails, we put her in her stroller, and a few paces were all it took for her to settle. Of course by then we’d wheeled her away from the class, which meant their last impression of her was rather louder than I’d hoped, but she’d been cute and placid for an hour, so it was best every prospective parent saw the full gamut of infantile emotion.

Home we went, or at least my wife and baby went home; I went to Home, the club in Boat Quay, for a comedy class, where I got the phrase "like a blind man being shown pornography" stuck in my head and forgot what it was a suitable simile for. Perhaps I should have stayed at the ante natal class. After all, they did have free biscuits.

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